


you should see me in a crown

by antiihero



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Eating Disorder Not Otherwise Specified, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Torture, Insomniac John, M/M, PTSD John, Past Assassin John, Writer John, jim gets to john first au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-20
Updated: 2018-08-20
Packaged: 2019-06-29 11:55:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15728904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/antiihero/pseuds/antiihero
Summary: All John wanted from his evening is to go to the bank, get some money, and possibly buy some groceries. But, of course the universe had conspired against him. Well, maybe not the universe, but certainly one handsome genius. John had escaped his past life long ago, but is he willing to risk it all for one man?





	you should see me in a crown

**Author's Note:**

> ayo!!! i've finally settled down and rewrote this freakin thing. if you're here all the way from this fics first draft, i honestly commend you. you're honestly braver than any u.s. marine for sticking this one out with me! and if you're absoultely confused by what i'm spewing right now, no worries, this is simply a rewrite of an old fic i wrote and i really hope y'all like it!! also, john and jim are both around 30.

_"been watching you for some time,_

_can't stop staring at those ocean eyes,_

_burning cities and napalm skies,_

_fifteen flares in those ocean eyes,"_

 

John huffed in annoyance as he shifted his hand on his cane, not completely understanding how the bank of all places was this busy, it was a damned Sunday of all days, didn’t people treat this as the day of rest? The blonde scoffed at the idea, as he never particularly subscribed to the thought of religion. Whenever anyone asked him, which wasn’t often, mind you, he played it off. Who would believe in a man up in the clouds and little cherubs playing harps? Of course, that exactly is not the problem he has with the big guy upstairs, though it is a part. John simply has the mindset that if god were real, why would all the bad things in the world happen? Wouldn’t the man who created everything want his creations to be happy? And if he heard another goddamn person tell him that ‘ _ god works in mysterious ways _ ’, he swears to whatever  _ god _ there may be that he’ll sock them directly in the face. Later, he knows he’ll regret these silly little thoughts that got him caught up in his own head, too caught up to actually take a look around him and figure out what was going on. There’d been multiple seedy individuals waiting in line, waiting for the opportune moment to strike, and perhaps the blond man could’ve done a little more than just stand there stupidly while an unfairly attractive man in a suit burst in the doors and the seedy individuals he was oblivious to earlier decided to pull out guns. Unnecessary, though he guessed not for what the man in the suit was planning. Everyone proceeded to scream as annoyingly as possible and get on the ground, to which John opted only to do one out of the two things on that list. He wasn’t a big fan of screaming his lungs out because of a couple rookies with guns. Hell, one of them hasn’t even clicked off the safety yet.

   This was certainly not what John had envisioned for his evening; he only needed some money to actually stock his fridge, something that did not happen very often. Figures this’d happen the first time he actually tried to take care of himself. His luck was almost laughable. However, he knew this was not the correct time to be caught up in his thoughts once more, and instead reminded himself he did have a gun on his person and was well trained. He could stop this, those men couldn’t pull the trigger on him any faster than he could on the brunet in the suit at the front. He was simply scanning over the crowd, and he looked pleased. It was a good thing his eyes only took in Johns cane and moved on. Judging by the man, if he’d let his eyes stay on the blond, he’d see the years of training welling up inside of him again and his tense posture. He was ready to stand up if need be. The man walked forward, the clicking of his shoes the only audible sound over all the customers whimpers. John knew someone must’ve alerted the police by now, but obviously the man seemed a lot less troubled by that than he should’ve been. His eyes trained on a rather scared teller, Johns teller, and the impassive look on his face gave way to an almost psychotic grin. That was when John knew he’d have to step in at some point. He knew that look, he’d worn it himself multiple times. There was no doubt in his mind that the man wanted to kill her.

   “There you are, my sweet darling,” His voice rebounded across large bank, an unmistakable Irish lilt to it. The woman looked 5 times more scared now, looking rather like she was doing everything in her power not to pass out. “You thought you could steal from  _ me  _ and get away with it? Well, you shouldn’t have crossed me. I  _ always  _ get what I want, and right now, that’s you. Dead.” It was at this point John had heard enough. He was a rather friendly man, so he’d talked to this woman numerous times, and he knew about her financial problems. He knew that even if she had stolen from this Irish jackass, she had a good reason. She needed to keep food on the table for her kids, and John would be damned if he let those twins grow up without a mother or father. He knew how hard that would be first hand. He did have a father, but he was more a little devil that sat upon Johns shoulder than anything else.

   Without putting much thought into what he was doing, John shot up and pulled his gun from his pants, levelling it with the man. “How about you pick on someone your own size?” True, the sentence did make him sound like he was still in primary school, but he couldn’t think of anything else remotely ‘cool’ to say to the murderer standing 15 feet away from him. The man turned and the smile was still on his face, but now amusement and curiosity sparkled in his eyes. 

   “Give me one reason why I shouldn’t have my men shoot you right here, right now. I’m afraid you’re interrupting something rather important.” John rolled his eyes at that, how pretentious could one man get?

   “I’m afraid your men are grossly unqualified for this job, and I have a quick trigger finger. They may get me, but not without you coming down as well,” John replied, his finger still resting deftly on the trigger, ready to pull at any moment's notice. The enigmatic man's smile widened, looking John up and down, and looking at something at Johns side as well that had seemingly caught his eye. Fuck, his cane, he hadn’t even realised he was standing with a damn gun in his hands without needing to use his cursed cane.

   “You make a good point, dearie. Though, I wouldn’t exactly say that we are the same size,” John shuddered at the nickname, hating the way the man had said it, and the man answered with a smirk. John also chose to ignore the quip about his height, already used to it throughout the years of always being the shortest male in rooms. “I have been rather rude, haven’t I? Jim Moriarty, at your service.” The blue-eyed man’s breath caught at that.  _ Moriarty _ . He knew that name, knew it from his time as an assassin. The man was one of the leaders of the criminal underworld. Why was he so interested in a middle-aged woman stealing some goods? And really, John should get back into old habits because something on his face must’ve given him away. “Ah, I see you know the name. My reputation does often precede me. I believe I haven’t caught your name yet, unfortunately.” Damn, this man could be charming when he wanted to be.

   John still fixed him with a glare, “That’s because I didn’t throw it,” At that, the man chuckled darkly.

   “You're a feisty one, aren’t ya?” Asked the man, more of his Irish accent bleeding through, and John was painfully aware of the police cars approaching. The man, Moriarty, looked at the street with distaste, and had the audacity to _turn his back_ on John, the man that had a gun trained on him to check back in on the bank teller. She had, of course, fled while John was distracting the man, the thing he’d been going for the whole time. The man slowly turned back to him, his eyes narrowed. “Now you’ve really pushed my buttons. It wasn’t hard to find that woman, but I don’t have all my time to waste on mundane tasks such as this.” Commented the man, thinly veiled threats in his voice. He was completely ignoring the police outside, and they had apparently saw the men with guns, and figured it wasn’t a good idea to approach the building. Smart thinking on their part.

   “Guess that’s too bad, isn’t it?” Moriarty’s smile never wavered, but John swore he saw his eyes darken. Almost like he was intrigued by the man. He continued to study him, ignoring the cops speaking through their megaphones demanding he come out with his hands up.

   “As much as I’d like to continue this little conversation, I’m afraid I have to bounce. Don’t think this is the end, though. I will find out who you are. Whether you want me to or not,” John pressed down the urge to shiver at those words, not wanting to give the man that satisfaction. But, according to the look the man the had on his face, he wasn’t very successful. The jarring ringing of a bank phone sounded off and broke the staring match between the two men, Moriarty looked severely nonplussed with that, clearly having a plan of getting away from this situation. He walked over to the phone, obviously still aware of John's gun on him as he turned around as he picked up and sent a little parade wave in John’s direction, getting John to roll his eyes once more.

   “Hello, this is M.” The blond couldn’t hear the other end of the call, but it was obvious it had something to do with Moriarty and his men surrendering. “Oh, how  _ mundane  _ of you, police. Could you really not think of anything else?” He was obviously met with the same request as before, and he was the one rolling his eyes this time, making an obvious exasperated expression toward John, as if to communicate that he thought the police were complete idiots. Which, he wasn’t exactly wrong, but why he chose to communicate with John about it was beyond John’s comprehension. “Yes, well. That is one option. The other is I kill everyone in here, which is at least 30 casualties that’d be on your guys’ hands. However, no one has been hurt yet and we have not taken any money, so we could also evacuate the premises without spilling any innocent blood. It’s your choice.” John looked out, and yeah, the cops were faltering, silently debating what would be the best course of action. Ultimately, he could see that Moriarty was disappointed in their option. “As I thought, so  _ boring.  _ Can you do no more than only care about civilians? Well, as you wish.” With that, he hung up the phone and threw a smirk at John. “It’s been great, my dear, but I must be going now. Expect a visit later,” And with that, he motioned to his men to keep their guns up as they walked out the back entrance, and as soon as Moriarty was out of sight, John lowered his gun as the cops rushed in, and of course his leg chose that particular moment to remind him of the pain that he hadn’t expected to go away when he drew his gun. He picked up this cane and leaned onto it for support. However, one cop in particular heading towards him with, with a rather worn down look and greying hair.

   “Sir, I am Detective Inspector Lestrade, were you a part of that man's scheme?” He went straight to the point, but the blond didn’t blame him. He knew that the man had to deal with enough crimes in London, adding another psychopath onto that must be a lot. John, however, was a bit surprised at that question; but also knew he did seem a bit suspicious. However, other witnesses decided to take it upon themselves to answer for him, which he didn’t mind. Their words would hold more power over his own.

   “No, Detective, he was the one that stood up to that man. He saved that woman from being killed.” And with that, the man's, Lestrade’s, attention was shifted to the aforementioned woman. John figured that if there was any time to escape the undoubtedly suffocating questions he’d be faced with, now was the time, among the midst of all the crying, traumatised victims of having to witness that maniac. He shook off the thought of the dark-eyed man. That’s something he’d reflected on once the man left. He wasn’t paying much attention during everything, too much adrenaline pumping through his veins, but the man's eyes were like black holes, and for some reason he felt himself wanting to fall into them. And that’s what scared him more than anything else that had happened during their little stare off.

   John decided to head back to his little flat, deciding it wasn’t important enough to him to get groceries that’d probably go bad in his fridge anyways. His main diet now consisted of midnight snacks of stale bread and crunchy peanut butter that he hated but happened to be on sale. Eating was so mundane, and sometimes he just couldn’t be bothered to get out of bed. It took him a lot of energy to even write and talk to his editor and asshole publisher, so staying in bed seemed like the best option. Of course, that was until the pounds started dropping like flies, leaving him below his ideal weight. Though, he couldn’t exactly bring himself to care. He still ate, it was just a slightly rare occurrence. John leaned against his cane quite heavily, hating himself for needing it. However, it did have its uses. It’s what got him out of the infernal career as an assassin. He hated being one, but his father kept pushing it onto him. It was  _ the only way he could make a change in the world  _ and  _ I got you an excellent opportunity, you better not screw this up or you’ll regret it _ . He always had a fancy towards writing, but his father knew his weakness. His sister, his father wasn’t too shy to make threats against her and he couldn’t risk anything happening to her.

   John did stay in the career after his father died though, always having his logic implanted into his brain, which took a bullet to the shoulder to break him out of. After that, Project 0 was a no go, and he hadn’t regretted leaving it, and he now had regular contact with his sister, who had some rather unfortunate stories, something about her and her wife splitting up and how she went to one AA meeting before giving up, and all John had gotten out of the deal was a new phone that still had Harry’s and Clara’s engraving on it. He didn’t turn it down, of course, but he still felt wrong having it. He knew Harry wasn’t over her, and John kept the phone perfectly pristine in case his sister ever wanted it back. He wouldn’t blame her if she did, honestly. He knew how hard it was on her, and how after that she’d tried her best to recover, but it simply wasn’t working out. He let out a sigh, and speak of the devil, he got a text. The only person who ever texted him anymore was Harry after he insisted that she stop drunk dialling him and crying about Clara if she had no intentions of winning her back. However, to John’s surprise, it was an unknown number.

**_Unknown:_ ** _ Guess who _

__ John smiled and debated to say DI Lestrade to mess with the man he knew was texting him. It didn’t take a genius to piece together who’d gotten his number excluding his sister.

**_J.W.:_ ** _ hmm, lemme guess, god? _

   John snickered at that response that he ended up giving. He knew the other man would have a field day with that.

**_Unknown:_ ** _ I prefer going by Moriarty but that works too _

   John rolled his eyes at that, of course that’d be his answer, but honestly, what did the blonde expect?

**_J.W.:_ ** _ I thought I was promised a visit _

__ **_Psychopath:_ ** _ Well, I don’t usually go on dates with people I don’t know know the name of, John. _

   John rolled his eyes, a familiar gesture when it came to affairs related to this certain stuck-up man.

**_J.W.:_ ** _ and who said anything about a date,  _ Jim _? _

**_Psychopath:_** _The_ _Roadhouse, 7PM sharp._

__ And with that, the conversation ended. And John hated himself for actually thinking about this. He knows what he should do, he should text back  _ No _ , he should block the number, and most of all, he  _ definitely  _ should not meet this man at the Roadhouse. But if there was one thing about John Watson that everyone knew, it was that he had an affinity for dangerous situations and mysterious men, and this so happened to fit right within those parameters. It only took him a moment to make up his mind, and even pretending he had anything to make his mind up about was laughable. The adrenaline high he’d had ever since meeting the man had cemented his decision long before he even received the text, and John honestly had no idea what to think of that. He knew that if Moriarty were here, he’d have that damn insufferable little smirk on his face, and John should totally not be thinking about that right now, the guy was a murderer, though John really was in no place to judge, he hadn’t been much better a few years ago. Though, of course, Moriarty couldn’t know about that. His files were slightly suspicious at worst, and nothing would point to Project 0, he made sure of that. He shook himself out of those thoughts, knowing he should at least put some semblance of effort into his appearance for this meetup that was definitely not a date and just a little drinking at a local bar. Nothing big, and he didn’t even know why he was treating this like he was in secondary school still and asked a girl out on a date like a virgin. He wasn’t a virgin, actually a far cry from it, and he had plenty of dating experience so he really shouldn’t be fretting over this. John also had to remind himself that this wasn’t even a  _ date  _ so he had absolutely nothing to be worried about. However, even he couldn’t convince his brain to stop running and giving him a hundred scenarios in which this whole thing could turn bad.

   Before John could get sucked into his head anymore than he already had, he started to his bedroom to look through the closet he paid almost as much attention to as his fridge, which would probably worry some people, but he honestly didn’t put much thought into anything he did, excluding writing, of course, and  _ wow,  _ he hadn’t realised how much of a problem that might be until now. John shrugged that thought off too, deciding ignoring his emotions, as usual, was the best thing to do, and began looking for the best thing he had. He ended up with an oatmeal jumper, a white button-up undershirt below that and some regular dark blue jeans, all slightly oversized because of his lack of shopping and recent weight drop. He couldn’t help but hope that Moriarty didn’t point anything out, but guessing by his knowing look in the bank, that was more than he could hope for. John sighed, then chided himself for sighing so much. His life could be much worse, he could still be stuck in that life as an assassin, killing people like they were just numbers on paper, which they were. And the majority of them deserved it, but it still didn’t wash away the guilt, those people had lives,   _ families,  _ and he couldn’t help but think by someone’s definition  _ he  _ deserved to die too. What if one day he did? It was no secret to him that someone always dies, no ones life is eternal, but what if one day he’s sitting on a park bench, reading the paper, and he’s shot? Just like that? Just like he’s shot previous targets? He hated the thought, but he knew it was more likely than him living out a full, happy life.

   Assuming the shower could save him from these toxic thoughts, John limped to the connected bathroom, grimacing at the pain in his leg. He’d taken earlier for granted, focused on the mad man that was going to kill that woman. He had to step in, he knew it. If another person died at his hands he’d never forgive himself. And maybe it wouldn’t be at John’s hands specifically, but it was close enough to make him feel guilty. He stripped, running his hands on his stomach, frowning slightly and the ribs that were poking out, along with the scars all over his body. Some were from him failing a mission, and his target not being the kindest man when it came to attempted assassination, though John had killed him later regardless. The others were simply from fights, with guns and fists alike. No discrimination here. That thought made a smile come onto his face though, he’s glad he didn’t lose his smartass personality with all he’d been through. That would truly be the tragedy there. John turned his attention back to the shower and turned it on, waiting for it to get to a comfortable temperature before climbing in and immediately regretting it. Apparently normal on his hand is _ burning  _ on his body. He should’ve really been paying more attention, but he reached through the spraying water and turned it down some, sighing in relief as the warm water washed over him. Showers always had a relaxing effect on him, and he definitely needed to relax. It was simply a totally not date with a psychopath, and it wasn’t a big deal. Not at all, and yet he still felt the need to call Sarah and ask her all kinds of questions, what did someone do during a meet up, what did he talk about? But he was resolute in _ not  _ doing that because this was  _ not  _ a date and John would  _ not  _ treat it as one.

   He finished lathering himself in the generic body wash he’d bought at some point, though he couldn’t remember when. At least he’d gotten some good shampoo this time around, one that claimed to smell like strawberry, and that it did. John rather enjoyed scrubbing his hair with it, hating how much effort he was putting into this meeting, he shouldn’t go at all. But then, there was the little voice in the back of his head, telling him that he’d already done everything else, meeting the man was simply another step. He sighed and shrugged, guessing the voice was right. He washed the remaining soap out of his hair and from his body, pushing in the nozzle and not bothering to push it into bath mode. No one else lived with him and he never took anything but showers, so it wasn’t a problem. The blond stepped out of the shower, promptly covering the floor in little droplets of water, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. It’d dry anyways, so he didn’t feel the overwhelming need to dry it off right then. He picked up his towel, grimacing at the scratchy texture of it. Yes, he hadn’t paid much attention before, but seeing that man earlier. John didn’t know, it’s like he awoke something in John and that alone made the blue-eyed man scoff. He was a maniac, not friendship material, not any type of relationship material, despite what John’s head might have to say about it. Or rather, a more personal appendage. He shook his head, and finished drying off his body, pulling on his clothes with no grace. No one important was going to see him at least, right? So then why did he then spend the last half hour he had before catching a taxi fretting over his hair, his outfit, and even once panic call Harry? She wasn’t much help, drunk and slurring that she was happy John found a nice woman to go on a date with. Great, even his lesbian sister thought he was straight. Though, he knew that was his own fault. He wasn’t exactly out and loud about being bisexual, much less so when his father was alive. He couldn’t even begin to imagine what  _ that  _ man would have to say about any of this, and he realised with a proud grin, that he didn’t give a shit anymore. Well, he knew there’d always be a small part of him that would want his father to be proud, he knew he’d always have those days where he couldn’t do anything but lay in bed because he had the same words reverberating in his head about how writing was a waste and that killing was the only way John would actually matter in the world. But for as long as John had been alive, he knew that his father would never be that man, the man to congratulate John after he published his first novel, like Sarah had, and the person that hugged John for almost an hour after finally meeting again, like Harry. John knew his father would never be like that, even after death. And the only think John could do was hope Hell is real and that Henry Watson was getting his fair share of torture after everything he’d subjected his family to.

   Though John also knew that this was not the correct place or time to be thinking of his father being tortured in hell, that he had a taxi to catch or he would definitely not get to the Roadhouse at  _ 7PM sharp  _ as Moriarty had so eloquently put it, and as much as he would hate to admit, he really did not want to let the other man down. He ran a hand through his blond hair and grabbed the cane that was next to him, though he could already feel some of the pain in his leg go away with the adrenaline building in his system. He actually looked forward to this meeting, and he couldn’t tell if that was a good or a bad thought on his part. He opted to simply not think about it; hoping that if he pushed it far enough away it wouldn’t be a reality. This was a one time thing, something to tell the psychopath he was meeting that he wasn’t interested in doing anything like this ever again.

   Yes, that’s exactly what John decided he was doing. He wasn’t going to become all buddy-buddy with a damn murderer when he’d spent the last decade of his life trying to get away from all that shit. He wasn’t going to get pulled back into just because of an enigmatic man with a controlling aura. He pushed those thoughts to the back of his head and stepped onto the cold pavement, his cane clacking like a wooden leg, which, he guessed, it technically was. he stepped one foot into the road and waved his hand in the air, flagging down the third taxi that had seen him. He wasn’t all that adept at getting taxis to notice him, never had been, but he was at least adept at getting the job done. He climbed into the back and prattled off the address to the Roadhouse, avoiding the drivers eyes. He knew that if they made eye contact, the man, guessing by his friendly smile he was giving John, would think it was acceptable to start a conversation and that was the exact opposite of what John wanted at that specific point in time, what with the nerves flying around his stomach. At first it was simply just a drenaline , but as time went on, it had developed into what he guessed ‘butterflies’ felt like, hearing his sister often rave about cute girls when they’d both been teenagers. John had never experienced them himself, even with Sarah, and yet here he was, resigning himself to the fact that he was actually going on a date with a psychopath.

   Before he could stew too much, the cabbie pulled up to the curb just outside of the Roadhouse, cementing his fears. God, what in the world was John thinking, agreeing to this? Leave it to him to get a boner for a murderer. Though, when you took his past into account, he guessed it did make some sense. Anyone who’d known him before he covered up his past life knew he was obsessed with danger, and the more he could completely screw up his life with it, the better. But he didn’t have contact with anyone from that life anymore, and good thing. They’d be all over him to get in a good word with one of the main leaders of the underworld. The guy had to have people all around wanting to get into his pants and be his right-hand, so why chose to go out with John of all people? Wasn’t he just complaining about the police being mundane as they wouldn’t sacrifice the lives of anyone? What made John any more interesting than the detectives that had pulled up to that scene? He guessed he’d figure out soon, what with the bar being right there.

   The blond was pulled out of his thoughts by the cabbie in front clearing his throat rather rudely. Though, John does suppose he’s the rude one, waiting in this cab like it’s going to solve all of his problems. Ha, wouldn’t that be a riot. He honestly doesn’t think that this small cab is large enough to hold his lifetime worth of emotional baggage. He gave the man a 20 pound bill and told him to keep the change, hopping out of the cab, still leaning against the cane. He’d been a little disappointed the limp hadn’t gone away yet, but maybe it was a one time thing. He didn’t know which one he’d prefer. His limp going away when he was near Moriarty, the mad man, or if it didn’t go away at all. One was a lot less complicated than the other, that he was sure of. But still, he concluded that he shouldn’t be jumping to conclusions this early, maybe he should try to actually get in the bar before he started to think about a future with this man. For all he knew, this could just be a one time experience and that was all. Though, that would be rather disappointing to say the least. He’d lived with this set back long enough, and while it had originally helped him, he was quite honestly, sick of it. And if it took meeting with a possible serial killer to try and figure out what was going on, so be it.   
   John approached the entrance to the bar, coming face-to-face with a rather built man standing intimidatingly near the door. Well, more of face-to-chest due to John’s height disadvantage. He was sure Moriarty would’ve mentioned something about a bouncer, but apparently not, and he ended up approaching the man rather awkwardly, asking if he could go into the bar. The man onced him over, and a tight smile grew on his lips. “John Watson? M wants to meet with you,” With that, a lot of tension melted from John’s body. He didn’t have to go through some barrage of questions just to get through the door and meet with a man he’s not completely sure he wants to know. But alas, he followed the man, taking in his dirty blond buzzcut and light tan. John couldn’t help but wonder who this man was to Moriarty, though he knew full well that their relationship had no business meaning as much as it did to John. After a few moments, he was led to where Moriarty sat, already having two full beers on the table, flashing John a dangerous smile. And that didn’t serve to dissuade him at all, having quite the opposite effect actually, something John hated. The other man made a gesture and the man that had led him here promptly turned away and left. John watched him go before turning back to Moriarty. The man looked sharp as ever in a jet black suit, with a black button up under that and a blood red tie around his neck. John had never felt so underdressed before, but he hadn’t made a habit of hanging around seemingly rich people like Moriarty. John took the seat across from the other man, eyeing his drink warily, earning him a scoff from Moriarty.

   “Trust me, if I wanted to do something so painfully obvious as to kill you, you never would’ve made it out of that bank,” And there was just a bit too much of manic glee in that voice for John to feel safe. “Well, alive that is,” The man finished, flashing him a wolfish grin. And, damn him, John believed the man. There was a certain point where you know a crazy person is telling the truth, and John knew this was then. He lifted the beer up to his lips and took a small drink, setting it back down as he watched Moriarty chug the beer in a much too graceful manor, something so out of place from the beer chugging contests you’d see in teenage rom-coms. “Come on, Johnny Boy, why don’t you join me?” The man asked, raising an eyebrow playfully. And with that, John felt as if he almost had no choice, along with the fact that John felt like he almost should’ve been drunk before even arriving. The blue-eyed man lifted the cup once more, this time chugging it so fast he could barely taste the beer, though he could certainly feel the burn at the back of his throat. He was done much quicker than Moriarty had been, slamming the glass back on the table and taking a large gulp of air, meeting Moriarty’s teasing eyes.

   “What is it?” Moriarty shrugged, his smirk staying on his face, and John wishes he could smack that damned thing off his mouth.

   “A lady never reveals her secrets on the first date,” John rolled his eyes at that, but Moriarty was obviously having the time of his life on the other side of the table. The other man gestured for a barkeeper to come to their small table outside of the madness that is everybody grinding on the dance floor. Needless to say, John saw a lot more skin from a lot more people than he ever wished to that night. Jim flashed his best smile at the waitress, and calmly asked, “Whiskey bottle, please, top shelf. I _will_ be able to tell the difference if you give me some second-hand shit, and you won’t like what’ll happen after that. Hurry along now.” Moriarty seemed to have a habit of simply being himself, and that being enough to frighten other people. The women scurried off, though not before John caught the look of fear in her eyes.  
It was an interesting skill, but not one John himself wanted. He wasn’t scared by Moriarty’s outward appearance and the things he said that were questionable at best, but he also knew that was only because Moriarty chose it to be that way. He knew virtually nothing about the man in front of him, and he couldn’t decide if that was a good thing or not. John often had these little debates about Moriarty, even having only met the man hours earlier, and obviously not under ideal circumstances.

   The waitress returned and sat down a rather big bottle of whiskey and two small glasses, giving John a small smile, which he returned, before going back behind the bar. John opened the whiskey bottle, knowing he’d need it later. However, when he looked at John, his eyes were narrowed and his lips pursed. John raised a brow, but Moriarty didn’t offer anything, and John knew not to push. He poured them each a shots worth of whiskey, and put the bottle down, not closing it again. He had a sense that he wouldn’t need to.

   “Why am I here?” With that, Moriarty’s pursed lips stretched into a vaguely threatening grin, running his finger across the side of his glass. He suddenly picked it up and threw his head back, downing the shot in one gulp.

   “That, Johnny, is for me to know and you to find out. Now take that shot and let’s begin the game.” John knew better than to question what Moriarty had in store, so he also picked up his glass and drank the whiskey, feeling his throat burn with the bitter taste, and coupled with the beer he had downed earlier, he could tell it was going to be an interesting night, to say the least. It had been so long since he drank he almost forgot how horrid it tasted. Well, this was going to get a lot more interesting than John originally thought, considering he most definitely will be a lightweight if you took in the fact that he hadn’t had a proper drink in over a decade.

   “This is how it’s going to work, you ask me a question, I answer it and take a shot. Vice versa, understand?” John laughed at that, knowing Jim had only constructed the game because he thought he could win, but nodded, it would be nice to learn more about the enigma in front of him.

   “What do you do?” Asked John, which earned him a raised brow. True, he did know the gist of it, but he didn’t have the whole picture. “Just, answer the question. Unless you want to break your own rules?” Moriarty shook his head, but the smile was still there.

   “Fine, Johnny, you win. I’m a consulting criminal, if you will. I run a large part of the underworld, and if someone has a problem, I can solve it,” Was the man’s answer, and he promptly downed another shot, wiping his mouth afterwards and refilling his own glass. He ignored John’s raised brow at the words ‘consulting criminal’ and carried on. “Now, since we’ve started out with that question, I think you should answer it as well. Your files are… sparse.” John shrugged at that. He thought he’d done a good job of covering his tracks, of filling in everything that needed to be filled in. Apparently not, or at least not as good as he would’ve needed to in order to trick someone like Moriarty, a master of covering up trails.

   “I think you should already know the answer to that question, genius. I am an author, plain and simple.” Was what John decided to go with, partly in order to protect himself, but mainly because he wanted to see if the other man would call him out on his bullshit. And boy, did Moriarty not disappoint.

   “We both know that is not the answer I was looking for, what did you do before ten years ago? Before you somehow popped onto the grid after a lifetime of nothingness? Not even a birth certificate?” Of course John knew he didn’t have proof of anything before ten years ago in his life, but even he didn’t have the answer to that question, if Moriarty wanted to ask him something about later in their little game. As far as he knew, his life was perfectly normal until he was 17 and his father got the brilliant idea of him being in Project 0, but John knew it wasn’t to help the government. He knew his father wanted him gone, and that was the most accessible way to make it happen. The only regret John ever had was leaving his sister. John sighed and downed his drink as well, knowing that the now familiar burn would make it easier to say.

   “At 17, I was enlisted by my father into a top secret government organization. There, I was trained in all kinds of weapons. Pistols, rifles, my hands, daggers, name it and I was trained to fight with it,” John took a second to look at the whiskey bottle, but decided against getting another drink for the time being. “After I was one of the best, and they made sure that I was, they gave me missions. All I got were names, and a couple days later, those names would only be another kill. Another person’s face I saw in my nightmares. The shot to the shoulder helped with getting me out of there quickly, and since then I am pretty sure they’ve shut down the whole thing.” He stopped himself there, knowing there was plenty more that he could go on about, but he didn’t want to share more than he already did. It was enough to answer the man’s question, and that was good enough for John. The blue-eyed man looked up and met Moriarty’s eyes, and saw him looking intensely at John, almost as if he was trying to figure out a puzzle.

   The rest of the night was mostly a blur, John could only remember bits and pieces. They polished off the first bottle of whiskey while talking about how John wanted to be a firefighter growing up and how Moriarty wanted to be an artist, before realising he was absolutely terrible at art. He distinctly remembers laughing, his high pitched one going well with Jim’s dark chuckle, and since when did John call him Jim? He remembers handing his phone to Jim, a mistake, surely, and he remembers getting into the back of a limousine. It was there that he stopped drinking, so maybe that helped with is memory a bit. He and Moriarty were sitting opposite of each other, John’s jumper set off to the side, only leaving the button-up below it, and Moriarty’s suit jacket had been taken off at some point as well.

   “That, Johnny, is how you have a good time,” Moriarty commented, his words only slightly slurred. John laughed, obviously a lot more drunk than the other man. Moriarty didn’t even try to hide his amusement at seeing John so blatantly drunk. “When’s the last time you had a drink, John?” John shrugged again, melting against the seat.

   “Hmm… If I’m doing my math right, right about 10 minutes ago,” Was what left his mouth, and left him giggling as Jim fixed him with a stare. “What? I answered your question,” John replied, even though Jim hadn’t even said anything. John thought he was positively hilarious, but guessed he should answer the man seriously. “I’d say it’s been about… a while,” John replied, but the exact time eluded him. “A very long while.” Is how he finished, his eyes getting heavier as he let out a little yawn.

   Jim laughed, but there was also something else in those eyes that John couldn’t exactly figure out. “Mhm, that much is evident, but honestly Johnny, you sound much too drunk for it to be just that. Have you eaten anything today?” John laughed at that, probably not the best answer to that question, but it just seemed so funny to him.

   “Yes, I ate a  _ lot  _ of alcohol,” Jim rolled his eyes, an exasperated expression on his face. But this seemed to confirm something in his head as well, however, John was far too tired to think about that as he leaned against the seat, his eyes drooping.

   “We’re at your place now, and while I’d usually be glad to watch you sleep, now is not the time,”  _ See,  _ that was the type of stuff that John was talking about before. Saying things that wouldn’t necessarily be creepy, but it did make a shudder go down John’s back. He groaned but grabbed his jumper, reaching for the door handle and opening it. He stepped out, suddenly getting light-headed and leaning against the car, meeting Jim’s sparkling eyes. What? Wait, oh,  _ oh,  _ his cane was still at the bar. He’d stopped needing it the second Jim grabbed his hand and led him to the dance floor. They’re both in their 30’s, but no one gave a damn there, and  _ damn  _ did John have fun. He smiled back at Jim, going to close the door before Jim stopped him, holding the door open. John was still leaning against the door, and looked at Jim with curiosity.

   “You are way too drunk to go alone, Johnny,” John rolled his eyes at that, but accepted it and opened the door further, letting the other man step out as well, hating how even he was taller than him. “I won’t do anything while you’re asleep, promise,” John hated that he hadn’t even thought about the man doing something to him in his sleep, but he shrugged the thought off. He had drunk too much clear and cohesive thoughts. John slammed the door behind Moriarty and walked ahead, promptly stumbling back into the other man, who just chuckled against his ear. “As I said, far too drunk,” John pouted at that, and stabilised himself. He’d be damned if he let someone else help him walk to his own door. He stumbled forward, and was caught by Moriarty’s grip on his arm. Huh, he didn’t realise the other man had put his hand there. “Johnny, if you keep refusing my help I will pick you up and walk you to your apartment like we just got married.”

   John rolled his eyes, but leaned against Jim’s body. Being carried bridal style would be more humiliating than just leaning against him, so he made the obvious decision. He was honestly quite lucky that his building had an elevator. True, it stopping was rather jarring, but at least he didn’t have to climb up the stairs with how intoxicated he was. He pulled away from the other man, grabbing onto the handrails that travelled across the walls of the elevator, closing his eyes and trying to sober up more, resting his head against the wall. God, he hadn’t drank that much in forever. The elevator jerked to a stop, the doors opening to John’s floor. Jim grabbed ahold of his arm once more, but let John lead him to his apartment. John had no doubts that Moriarty knew exactly which one was his, but he also liked the fact that the man didn’t outright say he already knew basically everything about the blond. John pulled his keys out and unlocked the door after a few times, his hands being too shaky to make it into the hole. He’d also forgotten how much he despised being drunk. It made him look like an idiot.

   “You take the bed,” Were the slurred words that left John’s mouth as he stumbled into his rather plain apartment, throwing his keys onto the island in the kitchen, and gesturing at Jim. He’d almost been unintelligible to his own ears, and he had no idea how the other man understood anything. He thought he’d heard the other man reply, something about how it would be rather ungentlemanly to let John sleep on his own couch, but by then said man had already collapsed onto his couch, falling into the void of sleep. He distinctly heard a frustrated breath, but he honestly could care less. He would be a damn good host, even if he was drunk out of his mind and this man was the one that invited  _ him  _ out to drinks. That was all the thoughts he had before blacking out, just knowing he’d hate himself the next morning. But at that point in time, he was content, even though he had a psychopath sleeping on his bed.


End file.
